Elspeth. It made her look like a girl, not a young woman of nearly twenty. But that was all well and good, she mused, if the Scot had a wandering eye.
Opening the door, she nearly winced at its squeaking. Sliding through a crack was no longer a simple matter. The babe had turned her into her ample mother, a fact she hated. She could hardly look at her son or hear his cries without feeling stouter. Now that her milk had come in, her bosom felt like a boulder even bound in the loosest stays. The mere brush of fabric against her skin sent every nerve shivering. She needed to be abed, but curiosity called her forth. She simply must know why Eden had been poking about the summer parlor.
The neglected room felt encased in ice this morning. Evidences of Hope Rising were everywhere, stinging her afresh. When old Greathouse had died the year before, the mansionâs rooms had been emptied and fine Philadelphia furniture brought in. The heir, David, was as frivolous as his uncle had been frugal. All of York had benefitted, though there had been more than one brawl over a London-made clockor piece of French crystal. Rather than hold an auction as any sensible man would do, David and his foolish female cousins had given most everything away. Though Eden was awed by their benevolence, Elspeth felt only contempt, as did their father. Secretly heâd turned around and sold some of the items theyâd received.
Wanting to escape the room as soon as possible, Elspeth began opening drawers and compartments for she knew not what. Her airy-headed sister was always reading and scribbling in spare moments. Likely she fancied herself a female poet. Time spent at Hope Rising was no doubt giving her lofty notions. Or was there more?
Her searching hands stilled. Could Eden be smitten with David Greathouse? Or David with her?
A river of envy seemed to flood her soul. Though the Greathouses were far above their humble station, it would be just like David to cast conviction aside much as he had Hope Risingâs furniture and marry beneath him. As heir, he could do as he pleased, surely.
Slamming shut a drawer, Elspeth remembered the Greathouses were in Philadelphia till spring. With so many city belles for David to choose from, Edenâs charms would fade away or be forgotten. Or so she hoped. Slightly mollified, she left the summer parlor. What did it truly matter? Her own future seemed equally sunny with the coming of Silas Ballantyne.
Was the man trying to be obstinate, or was he simply testing him? Silas wondered. Standing with the anvil between them, Liege and Silas had been double-striking a particularly challenging piece of iron but couldnât get into the needed rhythm to finish it. Each blow of the masterâs hammer wasslightly off-center, thus throwing Silas out of sync. His impatience spiked with every miss. Mayhap the old manâs gout was plaguing him.
Liege Leeâs very presence was plaguing Silas.
Though snow still blanketed the landscape, the forgeâs fire was an inferno, turning the situation more tense. The linen shirt Silas wore, mended so many times it was threadbare, clung to him in places. Sweat slicked his brow and trickled down his back, making him want to scratch his new beard. Liege was only slightly less damp, perspiration catching in his graying whiskers and shining off his creased forehead, his stocking cap lopsided.
âTwas his third day of service. Mayhap it was time to test the master. Extending a steady hand, he reached for Liegeâs hammer as it hung limply by his side and saw a flash of anger contort his face. But Liege stood by silently as Silas worked with both tools, finally beating the piece into submission.
âEgads, man!â
Silas waited for further condemnation or praise, but Liege said no more. Handing him the finished work to inspect, Silas moved on to the next need, a particularly challenging copper latch for a well-to-do tradesman. Despite his attention
Opening the door, she nearly winced at its squeaking. Sliding through a crack was no longer a simple matter. The babe had turned her into her ample mother, a fact she hated. She could hardly look at her son or hear his cries without feeling stouter. Now that her milk had come in, her bosom felt like a boulder even bound in the loosest stays. The mere brush of fabric against her skin sent every nerve shivering. She needed to be abed, but curiosity called her forth. She simply must know why Eden had been poking about the summer parlor.
The neglected room felt encased in ice this morning. Evidences of Hope Rising were everywhere, stinging her afresh. When old Greathouse had died the year before, the mansionâs rooms had been emptied and fine Philadelphia furniture brought in. The heir, David, was as frivolous as his uncle had been frugal. All of York had benefitted, though there had been more than one brawl over a London-made clockor piece of French crystal. Rather than hold an auction as any sensible man would do, David and his foolish female cousins had given most everything away. Though Eden was awed by their benevolence, Elspeth felt only contempt, as did their father. Secretly heâd turned around and sold some of the items theyâd received.
Wanting to escape the room as soon as possible, Elspeth began opening drawers and compartments for she knew not what. Her airy-headed sister was always reading and scribbling in spare moments. Likely she fancied herself a female poet. Time spent at Hope Rising was no doubt giving her lofty notions. Or was there more?
Her searching hands stilled. Could Eden be smitten with David Greathouse? Or David with her?
A river of envy seemed to flood her soul. Though the Greathouses were far above their humble station, it would be just like David to cast conviction aside much as he had Hope Risingâs furniture and marry beneath him. As heir, he could do as he pleased, surely.
Slamming shut a drawer, Elspeth remembered the Greathouses were in Philadelphia till spring. With so many city belles for David to choose from, Edenâs charms would fade away or be forgotten. Or so she hoped. Slightly mollified, she left the summer parlor. What did it truly matter? Her own future seemed equally sunny with the coming of Silas Ballantyne.
Was the man trying to be obstinate, or was he simply testing him? Silas wondered. Standing with the anvil between them, Liege and Silas had been double-striking a particularly challenging piece of iron but couldnât get into the needed rhythm to finish it. Each blow of the masterâs hammer wasslightly off-center, thus throwing Silas out of sync. His impatience spiked with every miss. Mayhap the old manâs gout was plaguing him.
Liege Leeâs very presence was plaguing Silas.
Though snow still blanketed the landscape, the forgeâs fire was an inferno, turning the situation more tense. The linen shirt Silas wore, mended so many times it was threadbare, clung to him in places. Sweat slicked his brow and trickled down his back, making him want to scratch his new beard. Liege was only slightly less damp, perspiration catching in his graying whiskers and shining off his creased forehead, his stocking cap lopsided.
âTwas his third day of service. Mayhap it was time to test the master. Extending a steady hand, he reached for Liegeâs hammer as it hung limply by his side and saw a flash of anger contort his face. But Liege stood by silently as Silas worked with both tools, finally beating the piece into submission.
âEgads, man!â
Silas waited for further condemnation or praise, but Liege said no more. Handing him the finished work to inspect, Silas moved on to the next need, a particularly challenging copper latch for a well-to-do tradesman. Despite his attention
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